


you want to die for love (you always have)

by greekdemigod



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, POV Second Person, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8572366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekdemigod/pseuds/greekdemigod
Summary: Things Luisa does and doesn't say to Rose.Nine drabbles, as requested on Tumblr.





	

**. things you said too quietly **

it’s one of those rare nights she doesn’t go back to your father after sleeping with you—it happens so little that you don’t take it for granted that she’s staying, that she’s going to curl into your arms and sleep with her head pressed up against your collar bone, trusting you to be kind to her at her most vulnerable.

you think about telling her that you love her— _love love love_ , not just your heart and mind but your whole body sings it, because you have never loved like this before. saying your heart belongs to her is too—insultingly—little. every broken, ragged part—every memory and experience and dream and need and want—every soft touch and softer smile. it’s all hers.

“god, i love you,” you murmur before you can think to stop yourself—your heart shatters against your ribs in that moment of free-falling terror, of realizing what you have just done, what you have just said, what you have just put on the line.

“hmm, did you say something?”

“just that i’m cold.”

she smiles at you, sleepy and unguarded and slow—she is so beautiful like this. you don’t know how anyone will ever compare. “come back to bed then.”

you do.

* * *

**. things you said over the phone **

it’s not the first night spent sending texts back and forth, an unending game of trying to one-up the other. your heartbeat races at the speed of light, clapping thunder in your ears. it’s not the first time you call her when you finally inch your fingers beneath the elastic of your panties, thinking of her, either.

but hearing her gives you pause. it turns the heat in you from searing to warming. her voice has become something else entirely; there’s a rasp—a purr—a hint of breathlessness. she is so hushed that every word is a fluttering, feathery brush against your ear. you close your eyes, you shiver, you let her voice float through you.

it might be because she has been in so many different cities lately except this one, where you need her to be, and because it has been a long time since you’ve actually _talked_ to her, and because you still can’t stop her from consuming you whole.

you don’t continue the conversation where it left off when you pressed a shaking thumb to the dialing button. instead you ask, “how’s new york?”

she grunts into her receiver and the sound simmers through you, makes you smile. “is this a new game you’re playing?”

“i just want to know how your day was, is that so bad?”

“it is when i am three knuckles deep.”

you concede.

* * *

**. things you didn’t say at all **

it’s exasperating to think before you speak—to bite your tongue, hold your breath, let the moment pass. there are so many things you want to tell her.

you can’t ever be honest when there are people around. all the _you are beautiful_ ’s clog inside your throat, thick and syrupy like blood. all the flirty, suggestive, raunchy things are transcribed to text messages sent beneath the cover of the table, because you love to see her squirm and try to hide the sudden flush on her face, but they don’t do justice to the poetry in which you think about her.

but you can’t be more honest when it’s just her and you. you can’t express your feelings through any other means than the fingers digging into her—the way you move against her—the way you pin her beneath you—as if those things will make her yours.

—the way you count every breath and every beat and every blink, hoping that it could ever be enough.

you don’t get to tell her she’s beautiful, or that you think about her every moment of the day, or that you cling to her smell in your sheets until your clutching and holding at it has wiped it all away. you don’t get to tell her you love her, that you could never want anyone like you want her, or that you did not understand why people say they’d die for love until you met her.

you want to tell her. it becomes more impossible every day not to.

you don’t.

* * *

**. things you said when you were crying**

it’s not a surprise that she ends it. you never would, even though it has been killing you for a long time. but of course, she would. and she does. and it breaks you.

your tears have always come easily. you feel intensely—it’s always everything or nothing with you, extremes that are exhausting to everyone, most of all yourself. but this—it is the most pain you have ever felt. on a scale of one to ten, it is a fifteen. compared to your mother dying, this is actually worthy of becoming an addict.

so you cry. and of all the things you want to say—everything that you have been bottling up just so this wouldn’t happen, so she wouldn’t get scared and run—you say only this: “i love you.”

”i understand.”

”i will miss you.”

”please be happy.” —even if i can’t be, won’t ever be.

”don’t forget me.”

it is when you’re running away from that place and that time and that moment, when you’re running away from her, that you wonder if you will ever get to stop again.

you relapse.

* * *

**. things you said when she was crying**

it’s a total surprise when she shows up in rehab crying. she does not cry—she does not show emotion—she wants you to believe she does not feel at all. but she does. you have always known, but being proven right only hurts.

tears are the only thing she does not make look beautiful on her.

”i'm sorry, i didn’t want this to happen,” she says—“i don’t want to hurt you,” she says—“i love you,” she says.

you stay quiet for a long time. this is what you have been lately: small and tiny and quiet, curled in on yourself tight enough only to feel the stretch of skin and the bending of bone and all the ways in which things inside you shift.

you want her to go away. “go away.”

you want her to stop lying. “stop lying.”

you want her to never come back. “never come back.”

you want her to know. “i love you too.”

you want her to stay. “please.”

she climbs into your bed and takes you in her arms and kisses you with that mouth that usually devours you, but now it slides whispers beneath your skin—in your bloodstream—in your lungs

you breathe.

* * *

**. things you said that made her feel like shit**

it’s not terribly original, but you tell her “fuck you” and feel proud of yourself. doesn’t matter that your bones bruise and burn beneath your skin—that you have never felt worse in your life than when you purposefully drive your hurtful words into her—that this is your own undoing.

“i'm so fucking done with you.” hook, line, and sinker—you plummet her heart into the depths of a world unknown and watch as she drowns.

“just go back to him. i'm so over you.”

but though you’re the one wielding the sword—poison-tipped, sharp enough to cut even through her marble-hewn perfection—you’re also getting slashed to ribbons.

you bleed.

* * *

**. things you said when you thought she was asleep**

it never takes long before you go back to her or she comes back to you. the honeymoon phase lasts shorter and shorter. your teeth have become sharp—your fingers tear and rip and break. you have forgotten what it feels like to be gentle.

but she keens and mewls and moans against you like she used to—she begs for more—she never stops pushing so you give and you give and you give.

this is what you have become. you were once proud and kind and only a little broken—now you give every last piece of yourself and then blame her for taking, for craving, for needing.

you remember days when you were content just to get to sleep next to her, to get to hold her in your arms while she dreamt, to wake up next to her and watch while her eye lids fluttered like butterflies and crystal blue caught the light of a morning you would get to spend together.

now it’s never enough and always too much. you have forgotten how to be with her. how to make it be enough. how to quell your thirst and your hunger—you are dying of starvation, but every bit of her is poison.

"you're killing me," you say, and you press your lips against her throat.

you choke.

* * *

**. things you said after you kissed her**

it has been two years and you have grown weary and tired. your bones ache and rattle inside you—every breath rasps through your throat—every morning you wake up more exhausted than the night before. you don’t know how to keep going with this aching, excruciating longing that you have.

you long for her—you long for an _us_ that does not come with conditions and time frames and warnings—you long for a happily ever after that you stopped believing in a long time ago.

“i’ve missed you,” you say before you take off her coat and her dress and her underwear and her smile. you reduce her to nothing but skin and boiling blood and pitiful whimpers as you claw and bite at her.

“that’s my good girl,” you say before you smooth out her hair and soothe the marks you have left on her.

“same time tomorrow?” you ask, and though you already had your last one, you claim one more last kiss, and one more, and one more. it will never be enough.

you ache.

* * *

**. things you said when you were scared**

it’s the end. you know it. she knows it. there are sad looks and quivering bottom lips and hands that reach but that don’t land home. a home between her and you has always been a construct made by fantasies and dreams and late night conversations between crumpled sheets and sweaty skin.

and yet, you are scared. you don’t remember how to live without her—be without her—breathe without her.

“don’t,” you plead. this is not who you used to be, but it is who you have become.

you can’t stand the idea of continuing on without your soulmate, the love of your life. it is obvious that she was created with a divine intention, and it is obvious that she was created for you.

“i love you,” you sob. it is not enough. it will never be enough.

she sighs, “i know,” and “i love you too,” and “but i can’t.” and that is all there is to it.

you die.

* * *

but here is the thing: you would do it all over again.

you want to die for love—you always have.


End file.
